


Moonglow

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Butt Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Stuffing, Wincest - Freeform, fat!Dean, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a fill for a prompt over at <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/"></a><b>chubwinchesters</b>: "Request - Alpha!Sam/Omega!Dean, Obese!Dean, impreg, mpreg:  Sam and Dean want to have a child of their own. While it isn't dangerous or out of the normal for Alpha/Omega siblings to mate and produce offspring doctors have said time and time again the reason for their inability to conceive is because of Dean's weight. Dean has tried to diet in the past and it always made him miserable plus Sam loves him the way he is. Unwilling to give up Sam finds a fertility / spell / potion to that's supposed to guarantee pregnancy... and it's extra potent when used on Halloween under a full moon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonglow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm afraid I don't know squat about A/B/O stuff, so that portion of the prompt got neglected. And the rest might be damned silly too.

**THEN...**

Chill autumn air drifted through the open window and across the acres of Dean's exposed skin. He moaned and lifted his head, saw the fat, bright moon looming high overhead, swaddled in a midnight sky. The lights were off, shadows thrown across the bedroom, and he was planted on his hands and knees. It was the best way to be, ass exposed to the world. His ponderous middle sagged beneath and brushed the reckless sheets. Fat pooled around his wrists as they pressed divots into the mattress, and he felt Sam’s broad hands grab the flesh at his hips. All the flesh. Sam was murmuring, chanting, summoning the magicks of All Hallow’s Eve to coalesce around them like static electricity, a prickly anticipation in the air.

Dean was ready, spread and wet. His breath caught in his throat as Sam took him from behind, shoved his thick cock in deep. Over and over, pinging into Dean’s prostate and sending shuddering jolts through the considerable expanse of his body. And that was no mean feat, Dean being easily twice Sam’s size. The swell of Dean’s upper arms chafed against his sides, and his belly was a dragging weight, almost warmed by the friction with the bed below. The old frame rocked and protested, and Dean’s limbs began to tremble. Sam slammed into him, voice husky and getting more urgent as the spell gathered power and thrummed energy within Dean. It was working.

_It was working._

Sam pistoned, hard and deeper still, his fingers digging bruises into Dean’s flanks, but no one gave a goodly damn if there might be telltale signs after it was all done. Sam had already kissed stinging hickeys all over Dean’s chin—chins, really—and down his chest. His nipples were piqued and tender, too, having just a little too much attention paid to them, not ten minutes ago.

Dean was achingly hard, and pillows of his own soft fat rubbed his dick like a lover’s touch. Sam grunted and dripped sweat on Dean’s back. Blood rushed crazy in Dean’s ears, growing in swells as his heart pounded, and Dean came with a dozen tight shudders as Sam gritted out the last, ensorcelled words of the spell. Then Dean felt Sam catch his breath, strain, jacking hot and desperate pulses inside of him. A ripple of energy shot from Ground Zero to the very tips of Dean’s toes, white spots bouncing before his eyes. Dean collapsed with a room-shaking thud onto the bed, Sam practically dragged with him. Someone’s cellphone went bouncing off the sidetable and hit the wooden floor, and from the sound of it, probably broke into pieces.

“H-holy...shit...” Sam half-chuckled into the back of Dean’s damp neck.

Dean wheezed out a laugh, when he could finally breathe again.

God damn, if that wasn’t a keeper, _nothing_ was.

 

 

**NOW...**

There are legitimate reasons why Sam has never taken an odd job as a waiter: he’s bad at it.

The tray, laden with a hefty assortment of lunchstuff, jitters nervously as Sam carries it down the hall to Dean’s room. Dean has long since given up trying to make it downstairs to the kitchen, unless he really, really has to. It’s just plain dangerous, and nothing is going to threaten this pregnancy if Sam can help it. Sam is strong, but if Dean decides to take a tumble down the staircase, there’d be little Sam could do to stop him except, maybe, throw himself down first to cushion the fall, but even _that_ is a bit absurd. Sam’s all angles and Dean is so...not.

“Hey hey, ready for lunch?” Sam elbows open the door. The tv is blaring some sports event, but it clicks off when Sam speaks.

“When am I not,” Dean says cheerfully. He is in blessedly good spirits for someone nearly bed-ridden. Despite the effort, he still gets dressed every morning, and it tickles Sam to no end to see how ineffective Dean’s latest shirt is at covering up his middle.

Despite being the ‘maternity’ model, the t-shirt only makes it half-way over Dean’s gravid belly and where it _does_ reach, it strains pitifully, the seams puckering and even split in small places. But it’s his favorite shirt and Sam isn’t going to deprive him of this small indulgence. Dean is making enough sacrifices for their kids. All three of them.

Sam has a flash of panic when he thinks of their inability to agree upon all those names, but he clears his throat and shoves that worry aside for the moment. They've got another month, give or take. Hopefully 'give'.

Dean sets down the remote and shifts with more than a little difficulty. He has to make a three-point turn just to pivot and dangle his legs over the edge of the bed. It winds him, that tiny bit of activity, and he puffs his cheeks with the effort. He has to spread his thighs to accommodate the enormous mound of middle that is plopped down between them, the exposed skin striped with slender red marks in blatant evidence of his sudden growth. Sam loves every one of them and just watching Dean maneuver his bulk sends a little bloom of warmth through Sam’s chest.

“Need help?” Sam offers.

“Shut your mouth,” Dean grunts and leans back, propped on his arms. His middle has gotten so huge, it’s simply more comfortable for him this way. Sitting perfectly upright is a thing of the past. He can barely see over the big ball of fleshy belly, and his pudgy cheeks squish and pinken from trying. “I give up; what’d ya bring me?”

With no small relief, Sam sets the overfull tray on the bedside table. The thing is damned clumsy. “So. We’ve got split-pea soup—with ham, of course—those King’s Hawaiian rolls you eat like _crack_ , I sliced up a couple of apples, glass of milk, and the pièce de résistance, pineapple upside-down cake. Made it myself.”

“You did not.”

“Okay, no I didn’t. But that’s never stopped you.”

Dean grins crookedly because Sam is dead right.

He tugs at Dean’s shirt, in some laughable attempt at covering the exposed skin, and Dean bats his hand away. It’s their little ritual, of late.

The big bowl of soup, four cans worth, sits nicely on Dean’s belly and he eats, as Sam supplements the food stream with a dozen rolls and apple slices, in turn. Dean’s appetite has gotten unbelievable, growing those three little Winchesters inside of him as well as the belly around them. Last doctor’s visit, he was pushing 400; Sam is pretty sure Dean’s well past that now. It’s both stunning and wonderful, and if Sam were to be honest, hotter than hell.

He doesn’t know when it happened, or why, but the bigger Dean gets, the more Sam covets him. Sam pops wood just thinking about it. He crosses his legs demurely and pours Dean a second glass of milk. Dean hardly slows down to notice.

As the tray empties, Dean gives a groan and a stifled belch, rubbing the bulging sides of his full stomach. Even his fingers have gotten deliciously plump, and Sam leans in to kiss them. He can’t help himself, but he sucks Dean’s pinky into his mouth, tongues it. Dean arches a brow and drifts towards Sam, listing like a succulent, _living_ boulder. Sam kisses his way up Dean’s meaty arm, across his massive middle with all its stretchmarks and freckles, past the stubble on his soft neck, to his lips. They kiss for minutes, Sam rubbing big circles wherever his palm can reach, before he begins feeding Dean the cake. When Dean makes to protest that he’s full, Sam just kisses him some more and of course, Dean weakens, takes another bite or three of cake and Sam licks away the sticky-sweet excess. They don’t stop until the entire cake is gone, with nothing but a maraschino cherry to spare, which Sam pops into his own mouth.

“Sammy, you’re an asshole.” Dean exhales hard and eyes Sam with mock insult, as if this were the first time Sam has cajoled him into overeating. Dean’s shirt is rucked up over his girth now, with no possible way to function as coverage. Good thing Dean thought to wear sweatpants today.

“Wait, hang on.” Sam isn’t done yet. He reaches into the drawer beside the bed and takes out their trusty tape measure. For science. The doc wants them to keep tabs on Dean’s growth because of the multiple babies. So what if Sam gets off on the numbers, too?

Dean rolls his eyes but as usual, lets Sam have at it. He lifts his arms, which look a bit like sausages in the tight sleeves of his t-shirt, and Sam presses his cheek to Dean’s belly as he gets the tape measure around him. He straightens it out over the widest span, and bites his lip when the ends can’t come close to meeting.

Sam lets out a low whistle, downright giddy inside. No amount of tugging will pinch the fat enough to close the gap. He guesses at 65, 66 inches.

Dean can barely sit upright anymore, and he flops back onto the mattress, his belly rocking until if finally settles into a corpulent mound. “What did you expect?” he says on a sigh, smiling faintly. Sam watches as the babies settle too, small undulations beneath the skin and blubber, and Dean rolls to his side with a satisfied moan, facing Sam.

Sam squeezes in beside Dean face-to-face, spooning around the babies and belly and all the buttery softness that Dean has become. He traces with one finger a few pale, taut scars on Dean's torso, the last remnants of their old hunting life, and Dean's lashes flicker closed.

"Don't. Tickles," he mumbles, and his belly ripples when he tries not to laugh. It reminds Sam of the moon that night, when he worked the magic and they conceived. Wild and full and...expectative.

Sam flattens his palm over Dean's navel, now officially an 'outtie,' presses a kiss to his puffy cheek. "You're awesome," he whispers, and they simply lie together until Dean's breathing drifts into a light snore.


End file.
